remember this torrent whipping your cheeks,
the weight of frost in your nostrils,
and electric salt on your tongue.
remember this white drift atop your boots,
laces that won’t stay tied,
and the despotism of saturated socks,
believe this storm will entomb the cabin,
that it will be just the two
of us and the scent of pine.
Written by Tyler M. Michaud
Originally published in the Eunoia Review.